I don't want to lose the boy with the bread.

So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends. - Peeta Mellark

He frosted under heavy guard.

Whenever I write a story, I hope it appeals to both boys and girls.

The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.

I drink in his wholeness, the soudness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.

My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.